Winter's Children
by halfway-to-forever00
Summary: "Mako never minded being alone. Of course, being a brother means that he never is, really." Bromotions Week, seven prompts.


"**Winter's Children"**

* * *

**i. alone**

Mako never minded being alone.

Silence has always been kind to him, and even at a young age, Mako learns that he likes to be able to listen to his own thoughts, likes it when his mother tells him that he has an old soul, even if he will never truly understand what that means.

Mako likes being alone.

Of course, being a brother means that he never is, really.

And sometimes, when the constant company grows tiring, Mako learns to retreat to his quiet little nook beneath his bed, taking a stash of sesame cookies with him. Sometimes, when the constant sharing and Bolin's grabby, sticky fingers become irritating, Mako wonders briefly what it would be like to be an only-child.

But in the end, Bolin would always toddle through the room, dropping to his knees with wide green eyes shining under the dark of the bed like lighthouses, pudgy hands outstretched and babbling his older brother's name.

And in the end, Mako always reaches back, letting the weightless thoughts of loneliness float out the window.

Mako never minded being alone; but then again, company is always nice, too.

.

Saturday night is Probending night.

It's one week into the deepest, coldest part of February, and the boys are crowded around the family's second-hand radio that's blaring a match commentary intermittently between intervals of static white noise.

They're still winding down from a post-knockout victory when their mother comes home from her shift at the restaurant, laden with a careful selection of bargain groceries of absolute necessity, and tells the brothers to hold out their hands and close their eyes.

They obey quickly, Bolin practically bouncing from the excitement, and their mother deposits two perfectly round, perfectly bright tangerines into their hands.

_For luck and wealth_, she says, affectionately ruffling the boys' hair. _Happy New Years!_

At the age of eight, Mako cares a little about luck and none at all for wealth; the fruit is tangy and sweet against his tongue – a rare and unaffordable treat – and so he simply sits quietly and happily savours the moment while it lasts, content in listening to his mother's soft humming and Bolin's own rendition of mixed up and mispronounced lyrics.

It's growing dark outside when their father finally stoops through the door, sweeping snow from his hat, and Bolin eagerly announces his plans to become a Probender when he grows older, giggling against the rough stubble that Father plants against his round cheek. And slowly but surely, their laughter and the aroma of Mother's stir-fry rises up to fill the dusty corners of the tiny apartment, warm and kind against the howling winds and bitter snow outside.

Mako never minded being alone; but then again, family is always better.

.

He thought he knew loneliness.

.

Two weeks later, Mako learns at last what it truly means to be alone.

Alone is not the quiet moment of respite beneath his old bed, nor the silence of his own breathing.

Alone is the emptiness that awaits him in his sleep, in the cold dark corners of backstreets and alleyways they call home. Alone is watching Bolin's rising and falling back as he sleeps, and knowing that if he blinks, the night will steal away his little brother, too.

Alone is feeling the weight of the universe on his throat, a bright scarlet noose of memories and burdens, of the smell of fire.

And Mako no longer wants to be alone.

(Mother was wrong; his soul isn't old – it's full of holes and heavy as the sky itself)

**ii. triad**

For Bolin, the first few months crawl by in a blur of white noise and salt water.

Eventually, he learns to categorize the tears, because if he doesn't, Bolin's afraid he might forget what he's crying for to begin with.

There are the tears reserved for hunger and pain – basic as the blood in his veins and the ache in his brittle bones. There are tears for his parents; for the pain of waking to the sound of his mother's lullabies, of grabbing a stranger's coattail because he has the same hat that Father did.

And then, there are tears for Mako.

A child's eyes see farther than all, and what Bolin sees in Mako are dark spaces and heavy skies; what Bolin feels are the cold shadows on his brother's back as he tries to fight the world, alone.

(there's just a faint spark left in Mako's eyes and his fingertips are dull with frostbite and Bolin's terrified that his brother is leaving , too, just like their parents – only slower, only more painfully)

.

They manage two full years – two full winters – on the streets, both of them running paper routes and Mako working odd jobs in dank and decrepit factories. Sometimes he returns to their makeshift cardboard shelter, grinning around a bloody lip and jangling a handful of coins for their week's dinners.

But it's not enough.

It's never enough.

They're starving, slowly but surely, and Bolin knows he can work, but Mako wants to fight the world alone, and day after day, Bolin can only watch him leave.

So when Mako makes his first run for the Triple Threat, Bolin tries to follow.

Bolin is always following.

(the tears for Mako sting the most)

.

Shady Shin hands him a wad of bills, and Bolin knows it's less than what he deserves, though he accepts it without complaint.

(last time Mako complained he came back with a bruised jaw, trembling with rage but eyes dry – dry for a full year now, and Bolin always wonders when Mako's run out of things to cry about)

"Good run, kid," Shady Shin says, and though the words are empty, Bolin feels a little better, wonders just for a bit if he's said the same to Mako before. The thought of his older brother, however, brings up a whole slew of new problems.

Bolin gulps.

"Shady?"

"Yeah."

"Please don't tell Mako."

It's a futile attempt, because even at the age of eight, Bolin knows the others will start talking, and eventually, Mako will hear. But then Shady Shin looks at him with an unreadable expression, with eyes like Mako's, only without the spark, only without the fight.

He nods, once.

"Yeah."

.

Bolin's waiting patiently for Mako when he finally stoops under the cardboard roof, holding up a small pouch of coins and bills.

"Look, Bo! If this keeps up, we might get to have our own place soon!"

His smile is infectious, and Bolin grins widely too, gap-toothed and giddy. "With walls and 'lectricity and everything?"

Mako laughs, and Bolin's missed the sound with the same aching in his throat whenever he thinks of their parents. "And beds and hot water!" He pauses, squinting at the bag peeking out from behind Bolin's back. "What's that?"

It's getting hard to contain his excitement now, so Bolin only says, "Close your eyes and hold out your hand."

Mako shoots him a skeptical look, but does just that, and Bolin deposits a perfectly round, perfectly bright tangerine into the palm of his hand.

(_for luck and wealth)_

"Happy New Years, Big Bro."

There's a long silence, and Mako is completely still.

In the unnerving quiet, Bolin fidgets, suddenly nervous that he's done something wrong, that maybe Mako already knows where he got the money in the first place, and maybe because this one hurts a little too much, a little too close to home –

Then, Mako's opening his eyes, and Bolin will never forget the look on his face; some confusing mix of crumbling resolve and flooding relief.

(Bolin's felt, but never seen breaking)

Mako cries.

.

The money Bolin's earned from his first run is barely enough to buy just one tangerine, so they end up sharing the fruit (Mako trying and failing to slip Bolin the bigger half), laughing with wings under their voices and fingers coated in sticky juice against the howling winds and bitter snow outside.

Bolin's never known luck, and maybe he'll never know wealth; but in that moment, with Mako's still-damp face pressed against the crown of his head, Bolin thinks that happiness tastes of sweet tangerines and salt water.

**iii. heirloom**

It's the middle of January and Mako is turning twelve.

On the morning of his birthday that neither brother seems to remember, Bolin borrows the red scarf, ratty and unraveling around the edges, claiming if for good luck on his new run route that day, and Mako – _thinks of the smell of fire; thinks of the light leaving their father's eyes_ – lets it go without much further thought.

(he's used to being alone by now)

.

The shadows start growing long around four in the afternoon, and the streetlights flicker on by five. Bolin arrives at their tiny flat by seven, trailing snow in his wake.

Mako's waiting for him with a scowl on his face, and their meagre dinner of noodles in a watery sauce growing cold in chipped porcelain bowls.

"You're late."

Bolin laughs airily as always, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly with a frosty mitten. "Sorry bro! It took me ages to find the right thread!"

"What's that supposed t- ?"

And then something soft and familiar is shoved under his nose, red like fire and laced with the scent of smoke.

"Happy birthday bro!"

It takes him a moment to process the sudden turn of events – Mako's never really liked surprises – but he runs his fingers through the fraying scarf anyway – except no, not really fraying, anymore; there's clumsy, uneven stitching now where there weren't any before, holding down loose threads on either end, and Bolin's fingertips are an angry red from the sharp bite of needles.

When it finally clicks, Mako's left speechless.

Bolin takes the silence with an ounce of disappointment. "It's not very good is it?" He worries, thick brows furrowed into a deep v. "I'm sorry Mako, I couldn't find the right red for the string, so I –"

Mako shakes his head fiercely, throat catching on his words. "No! No, it's perfect – thanks, Bo." He swallows thickly, trying to find the right pace for his voice again, and salvages a sincere smile. "Why red?"

Bolin throws the scarf around Mako's shoulders haphazardly, grinning widely with a tinge of relief. "'S for good luck and, and –" He frown faintly here, racking his memory. "Joy, I think? Or something."

Mako allows himself a half-smile, mostly because he doesn't really believe in either of those things anymore. "Where'd you hear that?"

Bolin shrugs, sitting back on his haunches to admire his handiwork. "Shady Shin said it once." Mako's face darkens; Bolin amends quickly, "and Mommy talked about this stuff a lot, remember?"

The lightness of Bolin's voice hurts something awful in Mako's chest – but the faint spark of memories flares up beneath his eyelids anyway, rising warm and nostalgic, and Mako supposes nothing is ever truly forgotten.

"Well," he says eventually, relieved to find his voice steady, "in that case, I want you to have it, instead."

But Bolin only shakes his head. "No way Mako; you need it a lot more."

Mako smirks, adjusting the scarlet fabric around his collar. "What, am I not happy enough for you?" he teases.

Bolin's eyes are serious.

"It's 'cause you're always trying to fight the world on your own."

There's something in those words that freezes time and reduces Mako's bones to ashes; the rebuttals on the tip of his tongue go up in flames, settling instead thick and full behind his ribs, and he tries to think of all the scarce ways he's learned to say thanks –

(because this is all that's left of their parents and this is everything that Bolin is giving him: red threads of happiness and the smell of home; a blessing inside a curse, and Mako knows that he will never really get used to being alone)

But in the end, he only throws an arm around his little brother, pulling him close.

"It's yours, too."

Bolin glows, and he's got their mother's smile, their father's eyes.

"Okay. It's ours."

(Mako thinks he may not be so alone, after all.)

**iv. scars**

A lifetime on the City's unforgiving streets leaves none unscathed, and the brothers are no exceptions.

Mako's run angrily in red flares across the palms and backs of his hands, which he meticulously hides day after day beneath fraying gloves and a film of quiet disconnection born from cold fire and layers of guilt.

Bolin covers his with ease, and truth be told, thinks little of them until he catches glimpses of the pearly lines and rough skin from time to time in the foggy bathroom mirror – residue and brick dust from street brawls gone awry.

They've both got scars; different marks with different pains. But there are other kinds of scars, too – ones that run deeper and unseen.

These, they share.

.

"Mako, I'm fine."

"Doesn't look fine."

"Just an occupational hazard, okay."

"Bolin, it's Probending, not illegal street brawling."

"How many bike accidents have you had since you got your badge, huh?"

"That's different."

Bolin glowers. "_How?"_

Mako turns away, sliding the first-aid kit neatly away. "I know what I'm doing."

Bolin groans. "Oh Spirits, this is about me going to Ba Sing Se, isn't it?" His accusation is met with silence and Bolin tugs down his sleeve tersely, holding back a grimace of pain, the sharp sting of his injured forearm turning his tone harsh.

"Bro, you're gonna have to start letting go someday."

He regrets the words the instant they leave his mouth, and Bolin watches in agony as his brother's back stiffens and contorts, turning small with age and scar tissue.

"Mako – Mako I'm sorry, I didn't mean that –"

He watches with bated breath as Mako reaches up, one hand passing over his eyes, but they're dry as ever when he finally turns.

"Yes, you did."

"Mako –"

"You're right."

That catches Bolin off guard. "U-um?"

Mako sighs, but he's smiling, and it carries with it the weight of decades, of someone who's done far too much letting go for a lifetime. "You'll be a great Earthbender. Like Dad."

Bolin shakes his head quickly. "I just want to be strong – like you."

A shocked silence fills the small kitchen. Amber eyes widen slightly before softening.

(Mother always said that Mako had an old soul)

"You already are."

They stay like that for a moment longer, and outside, the snowstorm rages on.

Bolin takes a breath at last. "Will it scar?"

They're not really talking about his arm anymore.

Mako smiles tiredly. "We'll be okay."

(_these, they share)_

**v. link**

Bolin leaves just before New Year's Eve, and Mako spends the next few weeks learning to adjust to the sudden emptiness of their attic loft.

He thinks he might have stretched the truth with bravado a little too much this time; they'll be okay, they'll always be brothers, but Mako isn't exactly sure how he himself will survive for the next twelve months full of silent rooms and closed doors.

By the second week, he's still cooking enough dinner for two, and paperwork trudges by with unbearable slowness without Bolin's solid footsteps and distracting whistling to break through these standstills in time.

(Mako supposes he was never very good at being alone)

.

On the third week, he wakes to the light patter of familiar slipper-clad footsteps.

Korra grins. "'Morning."

"Korra!"

"That's me," she agrees with a roll of her eyes, taking a sip from a cup of tea before offering it to Mako.

He gapes, still slightly sleep-muddled. "But you're never up before noon."

Korra scowls. "Not true, now that I've got all these council meetings at eight in the morning." She perks up slightly here. "Anyway, look what Bolin left me!"

He hears the familiar jingle of the housekeys against a brass fireferret keychain before he sees them. The sound both confuses and buries him in nostalgia. "But you already have a set."

Korra waves an airy hand, still jangling the keys. "Yeah yeah, we know. But Bolin said you could use some company."

And that's when Mako sees the two swollen suitcases and a blue pillow adorned with Water Tribe designs piled up against the door. It starts to sink in, slowly, and Mako sighs, but he's smiling anyway. "Guess I don't have much of a say in this, then."

Korra snorts. "Against me _and_ Bo? Not a chance." She waves an envelope in his general direction before tossing it onto the rickety kitchen table and bending over to collect her pillow and a suitcase. "Picked up your mail for you by the way; you're welcome."

Mako sort of already knows the contents of that envelope in its green-tinged Ba Sing Se parchment, but the rush of eager anticipation takes hold of him anyway as Korra's laugh drowns out the sound of snow and winter outside the window, and suddenly, the room no longer feels so empty.

Mako supposes he never really liked being alone.

(of course, being a brother means that he never is, really.)

.

Bolin's letters are quick and to-the-point; neither brother is spectacularly literate, but they've got enough years and unspoken words to make it by with parchment and ink for twelve months.

_How you holding up, big bro?_

Mako considers this for a moment, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip in old habit, before laying down some quick, rough pen strokes.

_Just fine. Korra keeps eating all the food, though. Like you, only worse._ He pauses here, and scribbles a quick postscript. _Hope you're eating well._

Bolin's reply rings with laughter.

_I'm a growing boy, okay? And drop the act, we all know you love cooking for her. _Postscript reads: _Are you kidding? Ba Sing Se is like food capital! Though I still haven't found wonton soup as good as yours yet. Hint hint._

Mako snorts to himself, and Korra glances up at him from her perch on the old couch across the room, a book in her lap and a faint smile on her face.

_Duly noted._

And so it goes.

.

Twelve months have never passed so slowly yet so quickly, and Bolin's second-last letter looks something like this:

_I'm still expecting that wonton soup. Are we up for Saturday night?_

Mako furrows his eyebrows in faint confusion.

_Of course, aren't I picking you up at the docks? P.S. I'll try, but only if Korra doesn't get to it first. You'd better hurry._

Bolin's reply letter is the shortest yet.

_Not that! Saturday night is Probending night, remember?_

The sentence is packed with enough nostalgia to knock the breath from his lungs – this implication of returning to happier memories that no longer seem to be his own – and Mako has to set down the pen for a moment, taking some time to watch the slow fall of snowflakes outside the frosty window.

But in the end, he finds himself smiling anyway, and their last letter consists of a single line.

_See you Saturday_.

.

Bolin returns three days before New Year Eve, and Mako's there to greet him, Korra and Asami standing on either side.

He's grown taller, Mako thinks, and judging by the scruff of peach fuzz adorning his chin, also in the early stages of testing out facial hair.

Mako steps forward, and what he wants to say is something warm, something brotherly – maybe '_welcome back'_ (because yes, he's actually spent time planning out this exchange of words, doesn't everyone do that?) – but what comes out of his mouth instead is a snort of laughter, and:

"Nice beard."

Bolin laughs too, uproarious and honest, and Mako's never realized how much he's missed the sound until now, flaring dull and deep in his bones.

Then, there's a strong arm around him, a solid fist thumping his back, and he hears the smile in his little brother's voice.

"Missed ya too, bro."

Mako lets himself breathe.

"Welcome home."

**vi. tradition**

Saturday night is still Probending night.

It's both very strange yet unexpectedly mundane – the two brothers sharing an old, beat-up couch in front of a second-hand radio that's blaring a match commentary intermittently between intervals of static noise, and Bolin feels as if he's already been here some many lifetimes ago.

(boys turned to men, gap-toothed smiles turned to scars)

The announcer narrates a spectacular knock-out to the roar of the crowd, coming through the speakers in shards of crackling white noise, and Bolin turns to find Mako wearing a faint smile, wistful around the corners and nostalgia in his eyes.

"Do you miss it?"

Mako leans his head against a fist, still smiling. "Yeah. I guess I do."

Somehow, Bolin thinks they're no longer talking about the game.

He bumps Mako lightly with an elbow. "I miss it too, bro."

The radio crackles on, forgotten.

Mako breaks the silence first. "Think Toza will let us borrow the stadium tomorrow?"

Bolin considers this for a moment. "You know, he just might." Then he grins widely, proudly. "But you'd better watch your back; I'm not holding back on all those awesome moves I've learned."

Mako smirks. "Sure you shouldn't save those _moves_ for impressing a certain Future Industries heiress?"

Bolin shoves at his shoulder teasingly. "And what would you know about romancing, Mr. 'Oh-you're-still-here'?"

Mako retaliates by shoving his knuckles into the younger brother's hair.

Bolin supposes some things never change.

**vii. mix**

Spring comes early that year.

There's already the steady drip of melting ice and snow upon the window pane outside, a month and a half ahead of schedule, bringing slanting pillars of sunlight through layers of glass and children's fingerprints, dipping the fraying scarf hanging from the coat rack in gold.

Bolin lets himself into Mako and Korra's apartment, balancing a heavy grocery bag on one wrist and avoiding children's toys and one of Korra's lost slippers on his way in.

Mako pops his head out the kitchen door. "Hey."

Bolin raises him a two-fingered salute. "Afternoon, officer."

Mako rolls his eyes before disappearing through the door once more, and Bolin busies himself with the grocery bag, still chuckling lightly to himself.

It's a little late for New Year celebrations between the brothers – now being late February by the time either of them can make enough space in their daily lives for this long-carrying tradition. Korra had finally insisted on taking the kids out for some bonding time, intentions transparent as blue glass above her knowing smile, and Bolin's never seen the apartment so quiet in years.

From the kitchen, Mako's humming a song, light and familiar, bringing with it snatches and breaks of lyrics that Bolin doesn't really remember.

Bolin smiles to himself.

Some things really never change.

.

By the time Mako emerges at last from the kitchen, peeling off a dishwashing apron, Bolin's already halfway through piling the tangerines from the plastic bag into a neat pyramid atop the family butsudan, carefully balanced upon a ceramic plate in front of the smiling photos of their parents and a bundle of unlit incense.

"Ready?"

Bolin grins. "You bet."

They make a break for the couch, Bolin beating Mako by a hair by vaulting himself over the back, and claims the radio first.

"Which channel again?"

"Er, a little more to the left, I think?"

Bolin proceeds to fiddle with the radio dials, tongue between his teeth, and Mako leans back against the couch, watching dust motes catch in the rays of early spring sunlight, ears catching snatches of music and news blurbs among the static white noise (_triad activities – decreasing crime rate – police force initiatives –)._

It's a little late for New Year celebrations; but always better late than never, and never in a hundred years would Mako have ever imagined sitting as they are now, shoulder-to-shoulder, linked with scars and history and some incomprehensible sense of attainment, of reprieve at last.

(Mako no longer wants to be alone, and in the end, he supposes he never was_)_

Bolin lets out a whoop of triumph as last Saturday night's Probending recap finally fizzles onto the airwaves, and reaches into the plastic bag for the last fruit; they're a far cry from the poor, starving orphans from more than twenty years ago, but Bolin still buys only one perfectly round, perfectly bright tangerine every year.

Mako nods, smiling. "You do the honours."

Outside, the first bird of the year warbles a tune that almost seems familiar, and Mako wants to say so much more, wants to let go of these heavy words balancing on the tip of speech. But then again, silence has always been kind to him, so in the end he keeps holding on, turning his eyes out the window and to the clear skies beyond.

"It's nice outside."

Bolin splits the tangerine in half with an easy shrug.

(_for good luck and wealth)_

"Guess spring's early this year."

Mako accepts his half with a wide grin, knocking it against Bolin's in toast.

(and really, he's had both, all along)

"So it is."

_End._

* * *

_A/N: in case it wasn't clear, I took the last prompt "mix" to literally mean a mix of the previous prompts/themes. I'm lazy like that. _

_Also, I assumed that the LoK-verse uses the lunisolar calendar, which is followed by many Asian cultures; thus the New Year referred to in this fic can be known as "Chinese New Year", or the "Spring Festival", which occurs between late January and early February._

_Thanks for reading! :)_


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